by Tot Taylor
Having no clue at all about how to respond or stem the flow, Pond decided to leave the boy to his blabberings while he studied today’s all-important chart position for the Gloom in the glossy magazine which Cornelia had just placed on his desk.
‘it’s all to do with energy… saving energy. Fusion power is what it is really, or what it’s going to be called, or known as, in the future. That whole idea is going to be very important.’ The explanation faded into the background as Pond lost focus and turned to this week’s sales figures, his mind cancelling out the boy’s mellifluous voice which became dull and distant. ‘…something we all need to… …pay attention to now… If we want to be able to… well… in the future…’
‘RIGHT!’ The manager tore himself away from the sales department. ‘But in the present, man… what’s the story? You’ve left the yokel people and you’ve got some songs of your own to play me, yes?’
The teenager fell silent and unbuckled his shoulder bag. He took a shiny 7-inch acetate from its sleeve and held it up at an angle to the light. Careful to keep his fingers away from the grooves, he began to inspect the impeccable surface for imperfections and scratches.
‘I made this two days ago at Pye Studios. My father’s an engineer there and…’
Pond didn’t give a damn. He flung himself out of his chair, fag ablaze, and grabbed the disc from the boy’s hands. Balancing the sharp edges of the record between his palms, he flipped the peach-coloured label, seeking a song title or group name.
‘Just you on this?’
The boy nodded solemnly.
‘Who does the backing?’
‘I play everything.’
‘Drums as well?’
‘I’m afraid so… four tracks of, well… …just me.’
John Nightly apologised for his own facility and backed away from the action as Pond squinted at the handwritten scrawl on the freshly cut demo.
‘“Wave… Orange… Love”?’
The boy remained still.
Pond seemed to lighten. He lumbered over to the other side of the room and placed the record onto the turntable of a bottle-green Dansette lodged precariously on the window-sill. He checked the speed and positioned the arm above the outermost groove. As he hoisted himself up onto the ledge and hit PLAY, his clumpy heels dangling in space, he gazed down onto the busy thoroughfare below.
An innocent, childlike voice floated out of the room and into London’s most happening high street, somehow sending instant calm into the Monday-morning rush. A guitar strummed softly against the low drone of a Hammond organ as a vibraphone threw sparks across the street. As the raga-like chorus built, a distorted, double-tracked voice delivered the song’s non-message. After 30 seconds or so the lyrics developed into a kind of chant. Pond, expecting little, and piqued by the boy’s uptight vibe, found it difficult to believe that this confident, laid-back performance belonged to the nervy school-leaver standing before him.
‘I hear the Steeple bell
Chime for you and chime for me,
Telling us to be… together…’
Pond turned back into the room. ‘Like it…’
The boy looked immensely relieved.
‘And I won’t be late
As long as my legs can carry me…
All the way
I know I won’t be late for Steeple…’
‘Love it!’
The second half of the chorus was even catchier than the first. Very English. ‘Churchy’, ‘village-y’, ‘countryside-ish’ and… a little unsettling somehow. An image floated into the manager’s altered mind. He saw windblown cliffs, a rough sea coast, a bleak headland. There was an old drystone farmhouse, an open door, a light-filled room at the top of a timber stair. Distant, almost strangulated music drifted along the corridor. Distorted and distressed, it was the same music that filled up the room right now but slightly out of sync with itself – uneasy with itself. Pond felt he was entering very private territory. Something very good – or perhaps not so good – was about to happen. The musical soundworld of the person delivering the message appeared sensitive, delicate, eloquent, but at the same time quite eerie, dissonant… ominous even. It was, Pond thought, also very January ’66.
‘This is… great,’ the manager enthused. ‘Great… … John.’
Suddenly Pond viewed the overactive, overanxious teenager in a different light. Quickly forgetting all about the Gloom – and tides – he appeared overcome by a kind of instant happiness as he leaped off the sill.
‘Actually, I love it. It’s… it’s weird but… good. Good weird. Yeah!’ The manager fixed on John Nightly as the boy allowed himself to sink back into the red chair. ‘Catchy… weirdly catchy!’
Pond glanced back at the shellac circle spinning round on the deck.
‘Great voice, man… weird… voice. Never heard anything quite like it before… to tell you the truth.’
‘well… that’s kind of… it’s part of… I suppose.’
‘But what’s influencing you here?’ The manager leaned forward. ‘It’s sort of…’ Pond frowned – ‘spindly music?’ – conscious of his own inadequacy.
There was no hesitation. ‘Well… my biggest, or most recent, uh… influ—…’ John Nightly replied, but the manager, now wising up, forged on.
‘Kind of a folk thing about it…’
‘Folk? Oh, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t say folk exactly…’ The boy paused, not wanting to offend. ‘And there’s no… spindle to it either I don’t think, unless…’
‘I don’t mean Dylan “spindle”, I mean more…’ The manager scratched his head, ‘Phil Ochs…’ He lifted the arm off the record.
‘Same as he’s doing now… but bit more… “ornate”, you might say.’ Pond looked at the boy, seeking confirmation. ‘Yeah. That’s it. Your voice… the tune itself, it’s… dunno how you’d describe it exactly…’
‘modal’
The manager looked blank.
‘Modal. It’s modal,’ the boy repeated.
‘What is?’
Pond twitched again as the boy relaxed a little more and perched on the edge of his chair.
‘the tune… the way my tunes go. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’
Not having a clue what he meant, Pond sat back down on the windowsill, ready to be enlightened.
‘like him – Phil Ochs – I use different kinds of… “medieval” scales. That’s what normal people would call them, anyway.’
‘Normal…’ The manager squinted and frowned again as the boy continued.
‘so it’s a bit folky, and a bit… I don’t know… “jagged” you might say. Like what the folk singers do.’
Pond loosened up, appearing genuinely interested now as he took it all in. ‘That probably is what I mean. Mixed up with a bit of a… a blues thing, maybe.’ He searched his pocket for a cigarette. ‘Seen Peter Green? Mayall’s guitarist?’
But John Nightly wasn’t listening.
‘my big influence at the moment is Delius – Frederick Delius – the English composer. Well, he’s a bit American, and… French, and German as well really.’ Particularly his chords. A lot of Delius’s music was based on folk songs, so there might be something there. And I’ve been listening to Bartok, things like that… Stravinsky. Well, he’s definitely modal, isn’t he?’
The manager couldn’t say for certain whether Stravinsky was modal or not, but was becoming frustrated by the constant noise outside the open window. The busy comings and goings. Black cabs and delivery vans climbing the kerbs while trying to avoid dolly-bird shop girls and mouthy street vendors. The bleak reality of Monday-morning commerce as opposed to the walk through the mirror suggested by John Nightly’s contemplative, almost sacred-sounding music. Pond flicked fag ash into Carnaby Street and swept his wavy fringe away from his face in an affected manner.
‘Heavy stuff…’
It was a seemingly disinterested response. But only because the manager was now considering. The client zoomed once m
ore.
‘Heavy? It’s not heavy… it’s… well – it’s not light either though.’ The boy concentrated hard. ‘It’s very… exciting stuff, I think… Everything he – Stravinsky – does. And very easy to listen to. If you just kind of… accept it. Stockhausen as well – and Berio. All of them. Though there’s a million miles between Stravinsky and Stockhausen, obviously…’ The boy straightened himself up again. ‘I did a course in contemporary music at Cambridge. A correspondence course, getting homework sent from America, even from people like John Cage. So that’s what interests me more than anything right now. At the moment it is, anyway.’
By now, the manager, an instinctive recogniser of talent – and torment – when he came across it, was behaving in a much more measured and considerate manner.
‘Heard the names, if not actually heard their stuff. But this track does sound very… different. In terms of the current pop scene I mean. It’s unusual, John.’ Pond calmed his bouffant with the flat of his hand and checked his profile in the mirror.
He turned full-on to the glass, running his index finger firmly along the line of his eyebrow to straighten it. ‘Probably the most different-sounding thing I’ve heard for a long time. And your singing… your voice…’ He continued to look while he adjusted his neckwear. ‘It’s… it’s beautiful. Really clear and… Clear as a bell as they say in the trade. Would you be offended if I said it was a bit… bit…’ – Pond paused for a second – ‘choirboy-ish or something?’
The boy eased again. It was as if tiny, untold secrets were gradually being uncovered.
‘Your influences are more “classical” than pop, aren’t they?’
John Nightly considered for a moment, suddenly enjoying this first experience of someone actually asking him, honouring him, with questions about the origins of his creations. It’s a privilege to be asked about your work – the very best kind of therapy – and something John Nightly had always dreamed of, fantasised about from the day he set his sights on earning a living by making music, using what talent had been bestowed upon him in order to become a bona fide (for want of a better term) pop star. In his own zoomy, hyperbolic head the journey he was about to embark upon would lead to him being regarded as perhaps the singer-songwriter and, if he could manage it, ‘composer’ of his generation.
‘They are at the moment, I suppose. But on the other hand, I’m living in a “pop” time like everyone else. So it’s… it’s all mixed up with things I hear every day on the radio, away from more classical things…’
The enquirer, now listening intently, walked back across the room and pulled his chair up to his desk. Pond looked squarely at the boy before taking his seat.
‘John… it’s a good job you came in today. Fortuitous, you might say’, Pond shuffled through a skyscraper of tapes and demos. ‘I’m going over to meet George Martin this afternoon, to play him this group we’ve got – the Gloom.’ He pulled out an acetate. ‘Their follow-up record. Great little record. If anyone has the power to get things moving these days, I would’ve thought that this is just the sort of thing he might go for.’
‘George Martin…’ John Nightly found himself repeating the already oft-repeated name.
‘Quick thought, though…” The manager suddenly changed direction, looked the boy up and down then fixed on the magazine open before him.
‘Ever done any visual… y’know… “acting” work at all?’ Pond picked up the paper, ‘Ever done any… modelling, John?’
‘Modelling?’ John Nightly looked up. ‘You mean art?’ Pond stared at him. ‘Clay or…’
The manager wondered whether the new client might possibly be taking the Mickey. If so, it would not be appreciated.
‘Not clay man. Don’t be daft, John… I’m talking about modelling. Clothes modelling!’ Pond waved the periodical in the air. ‘Magazines and… models… beautiful-women-type modelling, John!’
Pond checked his watch and hastily adjusted the minute hand.
‘I’m saying this because I’ve just had a guy drop out on a session this afternoon. Seeing you standing there… I’m thinking you could… maybe… “fit the bill” as they say.’ Pond scratched his head. ‘And help us out of a spot at the same time.’ He looked the boy up and down more critically. ‘Reckon you could easily… skim through it, man.’
The boy broke into an immediate sweat. He got up from the red chair and began to gravitate slowly backwards towards the door. As he shook his head rather theatrically in disbelief, John Nightly’s unruly blond hair fell over his eyes, making him look like a ten-year-old abandoned in a playground; the last man to be picked for the team. The boy’s heart sank as he despaired of finding himself yet again in this all-too-familiar situation, even in this new, anonymous environment – the very same situation he seemed to have occupied too often in his life so far.
‘… really… honestly… I… I don’t think I’d be a good… skimmer…’
The manager got up from his desk, plunged his hands deep into his pockets, walked towards John Nightly and, at 6’3½” – several inches taller than the shrinking teenager – straightened himself up as he stared down.
‘This is easy money, John. Easy money. For an hour’s sitting around? You gotta be kidding. And JCE only take half…’
‘Half?’
‘Half of what you get paid…’
The boy looked completely taken aback. ‘People get paid to do that?’
‘Of course people get paid – you get paid, John. They’re all making a fortune out there! Don’t be so…’ Pond searched for an appropriate condemnation before realising he might possibly be going just a little too far on what was, after all, just an initial, getting-to-know-you meet.
John Nightly also began to think. About the green Gibson Les Paul which only a few hours earlier had been eyeing him up from a shop window in Charing Cross Road. About the little second-hand turquoise moped he’d seen in the Meadowsweet Garage back in Cambridge. And about the possibility of being able to purchase an outfit like that of the potential manager. Pond noted the sea change and applied his most persuasive tone to the by now visibly fading teenager.
‘In terms of helping us out… of a difficult corner, John.’
The boy seemed slightly dazed. ‘…it is… very nice of you… but I… I just don’t think I could… well… that kind of…’ John picked up his bag – ‘I don’t have any… training, for one thing…’ – as he paused for a quick recce out into the corridor. ‘Being photographed or anything, I mean. Nothing at all to do with anything like that.’
John Nightly turned up the collar of his windcheater, zipped it up to his chin and searched his bag for gloves. He made as if to leave, suddenly feeling uneasy and quite out of place.
‘Training? That’s a new one!’ Pond grabbed another pack of Sobranie.
‘Look. I’ll get Sand to arrange a booker for you. See if we can’t get you on something easy… something a bit classy. Bit of a try-out…” He slit open the pack and pulled out an elegant black cigarette. ‘You’ve already got that classy thing going for you. Cambridge thing and all that. What they call the English Boy thing. They’re all going on about that at the moment. Well, that’s you – isn’t it?’
For a moment, just for a moment, John Nightly seemed to be considering. Maybe, with a touch of application, there might be a slim possibility that he may actually find himself ‘skimming’. The manager sensed progress being made.
‘That’s where it’s at right now, John. The Look, as they say. In the papers all the time. Swinging London, yes? Heard of it? A cliché already, I know, but…’
Pond edged towards the door as if to prevent his captive escaping. ‘They match you up with a fresh-faced, “innocent” chick – though that’d be difficult, come to think about it, and well…’ Pond raised his perfectly straight eyebrows and gave the boy a knowing look. ‘Got yourself a modelling assignment!’
‘But I’ve already got a gir—’
‘Got one of those already as wel
l? All the better, then. You’re well catered for in that area. Keeps you sane in times of trouble, I hear.’ The manager lit up and took a puff before barking a question into the corridor.
‘Sand!’ Pond awaited an acknowledgement that didn’t come. ‘Who’s the girl this afternoon?’ There was a pause…
‘Iona’
‘Iona? Well… there’s nothing innocent about that one!’ Pond inhaled then appeared to reconsider as he stopped dead and stared into the distance. ‘That’s really, very… uncharacteristically uncharitable of me. There is… with that one, anyway. She’s… well… she’s nice… Iona.’ The manager became uncharacteristically charitable for a moment.
‘Very nice, that particular… Anyway! You should try it. You should definitely try it!’ Pond moved away from the door. ‘If we can get it for you…’
John Pond sat down at his desk, stretched his legs and lodged his Black Russian on the ashtray while strategically arranging his pens, pencils, paperweights, paperclips, address book, inkwell, blotter, calendar and telephone, as if about to do battle. He picked up the receiver and began to dial, then had second thoughts and put it down again. The manager swivelled round to face his charge.
‘There’s a feeling of something happening here, John. Sure you can feel it same as I can. London as a place I mean. But also JCE as a happening little… cultural environment… An “enclave”, you might say. That’s what we’re trying to create, anyway. A place where things can happen.’ Pond continued uncertainly, as he always would when he felt unqualified to speak about something, sensing his explanation might be a little high falutin, what he himself might have described as ‘poncy’, although he undoubtedly believed in what he was trying to say. ‘A “well-vibey” place, is what I…’ He laughed. ‘Well-vibey…’ Pond’s piercing, almost hypnotic eyes were aimed straight at the boy as if to say, You do understand me, don’t you?
‘It’s the kind of “vibey” you can feel in your bones, John.’
At that particular moment the boy was feeling a very definite vibrational quaking in his bones. With this bumpy, undulating vibe and the fast turnover of both mood and job opportunity from the potential employer, John Nightly wanted nothing more than to leave the vibey enclave as fast as possible. Pond began his round-up.
